Note to Self: Invest in a Sofa Bed
by p.r. fox
Summary: The kid's just lying there on the filth-encrusted alley floor with the tomcats descending on him and his chest's all torn open like nobody's business, and Luce Worth's just glad his too-small couch will finally be big enough for somebody.
1. Chapter 1

**Man, I feel terrible. I practically abandoned the HINABN fandom for the Sherlock fandom, and I had a few HINABN fics all lined up when I did. But I'm back to HINABN fic-writing, yay! I'm learning to balance my fandoms. I have a Casimiro/Finas friendship fic, a Worth/Toni friendship fic, and a Mr. Hatch-centric fic lined up after this, weeee. Oh, and another Lamont/Worth growing-up-as-friends thingy.**

**The kid's just lying there on the filth-encrusted alley floor with the tomcats descending on him and his chest's all torn open like nobody's business, and Luce Worth's just glad his too-small couch will finally be big enough for somebody.

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**

Luce Worth will do practically anything to avoid any unnecessary contact with the police, but when he answers the knock at his door (more of a loud, frantic scraping noise than a knock, but whatever) he thinks _maybe_ this time it'd be necessary, because his visitor's about level with his navel and looks about twelve and deathly pale and "_Jesus Christ_, what the _fuck_ happened to _you?_"

That's a lot of blood. That's _way_ too much blood. Worth isn't squeamish or anything but this looks like something a legitimate doctor should handle, not a thirty-year-old med school dropout who doesn't ask too many questions and demands cash upfront.

This is a _kid_. Worth can't tell what color his fucking shirt is supposed to be; it's dark in the alley and the kid's front is just sopping wet with blood, and it's on his face, too, in a fine spray. He really ought to be in the back of an ambulance, but when Worth says so ("Fuck fuck _fuck_—jus'—hold on—here, _shit_, get inside, I'm callin' an ambulance—") that's when the kid finally says something, like he's snapping out of the trance that had him just standing there in the doorway with big, hollow, electric blue eyes.

"No!" he gasps suddenly, lurching forward to grasp at Worth's shirt. His hands leave smudges of red on the fabric and when he stumbles over the threshold, blood splatters gorily on the floor. "_No_, don't—don't call anybody, _please_—I'm just—"

"Oi, oi, oi!" Worth grasps the kid's wrists and pries them away from his shirt. The kid stammers and babbles on, his tone desperate and his voice hoarse like he's been screaming, and Worth finally says, "Awright, I ain't callin' anybody!" just to shut him up because he has more important matters to focus on, like _all the fucking blood_.

But it makes the kid go quiet and his hands fall limply from Worth's shirt. His face is white as a sheet and Worth grips him by the shoulders when the kid sways dangerously on the spot.

"Help me," he croaks, before his eyes roll up behind big, dorky glasses and his knees give out. He slumps to the ground with all the grace of a wet noodle.

"_Shit_." Worth kneels by the kid and checks his neck and wrist for a pulse. It's weak and erratic against his fingertips, but fuck it, it's _there_, isn't it? His hands hover uncertainly over the tiny, prostrate form as he wonders about the dangers of moving him, but Jesus Christ, the kid's probably going to die anyway, so Worth scoops him up into his arms as easily as he might lift an empty cardboard box and brings him inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

The back room is in need of a good scrubbing down, and Worth'll do that soon. Eventually. Maybe. He tries not to just dump the kid on his examination table (gentle's not really his thing) and he sets to work hooking him up to his shiny machines that haven't seen much action as of late. Most of Worth's patients are just stupid people with stupid injuries, easily fixed, but they haven't got insurance or they can't afford regular hospital bills or whatever, and Worth doesn't complain because what money they _do_ have is good (although Worth is pretty sure he knows what's going on with that asshole from last week, and if he brings his googly-eyed kid in here with something busted up on him again, Worth's calling child services). He gets an IV drip into the kid and has the heart monitor up and running, and he holds a phone between his cheek and shoulder to call Lamont and tell him to bring him some Type O blood for a transfusion stat because _fucking hell_ _this kid is practically gray_ as he snaps on his gloves and carefully cuts the sodden fabric of the kid's shirt away, searching for the injuries.

The injuries—_injury_, singular—he finds is definitely not what he was expecting. He sees, naturally, a metric fuckton of blood. But he sees—incisions? lacerations? avulsions? he's not sure how to classify _this_ particular wound—skin, broken skin, separated from the muscle and _pulled_, stretched across the flat plane of the kid's chest, pulled taut to corners where—staples? He sees surgical staples holding the flaps in place, _what the fucking hell happened?_

It's a lot of blood, yeah, but not as much under the shirt as the front had Worth believe. The wound seems to have already stopped bleeding, which is the weirdest fucking thing Worth has ever seen because—fucking _look at it!_ He jams a cigarette between his lips and lights it swiftly before reaching for a box of medical wipes and sets about gingerly swabbing the kid's chest clean. He glances at the heart monitor several times and taps his foot impatiently. Lamont can get his fat ass here _any fucking second now—_

He hears the door to his office swing open, Lamont Toucey calling, "Luce?"

"Took yer fuckin' time gettin' here, didn'tcha!" Worth snarls over his shoulder. "Get in here an' help me."

Lamont's footsteps pause in the doorway to the room. "_Holy_—that's a _kid! _What the hell?"

"Oh, yer eyes are still workin', I was worried fer nothin'," Worth says caustically, snatching the blood bag from Lamont's hands and replacing it with a pair of Latex gloves. "Make yerself useful an' clean 'im up. Don't touch the staples or the wounds, I dunno what the _fuck_ those are."

"Christ," Lamont breathes, pulling the gloves on and taking a medical wipe as Worth sets up the blood. "Any idea who he is?"

"Not a fuckin' clue, he just showed up an' collapsed at my door!"

Lamont's hand wiping the kid down pauses, and then moves to the pocket of the kid's jeans.

"The hell are you doin'?" Worth says testily once he has the kid all hooked up.

"Checking for a wallet, genius," Lamont says with a roll of his eyes. "Wallet means ID, most likely. Aha," he says, fishing said wallet from the other pocket. Worth resumes cleaning up the blood as Lamont fingers through the contents.

"Well?"

Lamont plucks a card from the depths of the wallet and squints at it. "Hanna Falk Cross," he reads. "He's nineteen. Goes to the community college here in the city." He looks down at Hanna Cross's empty face with a frown. "Doesn't look it."

"_Hanna?_ That's a girl's name," Worth scoffs, tossing his last wipe away and glaring down at the strange, stapled injury, assessing it. "Kid doesn't want me callin' no ambulance for 'im, so I won't, but I ain't got the foggiest how to fuckin' treat this."

"Those staples look like they're all that's holding him together," Lamont grimaces, to which Worth nods in agreement.

"Ain't even gonna try an' remove 'em," he mutters. "My best guess is to just fuckin'…stitch 'im up an' see how that works."

"Go for it." He tosses Worth the needle and thread, and Worth gets to work as Hanna gradually loses the pale, deathly pallor and gets a bit of color back in his skin. When he's done, he finally sits back, lighting another smoke, and peels off his gloves. He tosses them in the general direction of a waste bin and hears them hit the tile floor with a wet slap.

"Well," he exhales, "that's all finished. Now it's just a fuckin' waitin' game, _perfect_." He puffs agitatedly on his cigarette, staring at the steady heart rate on the monitor. He doesn't like it when kids stumble into his office. He likes junkies and criminals, not kids. Kids make him uncomfortable. Kids and pregnant girls.

"Need me to stay or have you got this under control?" Lamont asks, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he eyes Hanna on the table warily.

"Nah, I got this," Worth says. "You bring food with ya?"

"Uh, no."

"Get some Thai an' bring it here, 'M fuckin' starvin'."

Lamont rolls his eyes but Worth doesn't care because he's back in ten minutes with Thai food that's still hot, and they sit in the room stealing glances at Hanna, waiting for him to come around.

Worth has already finished his food and is inching closer to Lamont's noodles with his chopsticks when Hanna lets out a little groan. Worth drops his chopsticks and he and Lamont stand, but Lamont hangs back a bit to give them space as Worth approaches the boy.

"Cross?" Worth says sharply. "Can you hear me?"

"Ngh," Hanna mutters, his skinny limbs twitching and his head lolling back and forth dizzily.

"Do you know where you are?" Worth asks deliberately, in a rare occurrence enunciating each word. He asks the question again, slowly and clearly, when Hanna's eyelids flutter behind the glasses.

"I'm…" Hanna croaks, eyes rolling erratically as he takes in his surroundings. "In a…room. Not…not a hospital, n-not a hospital, good, I'm…" He takes in a deep shuddering breath and tries to sit up.

"Oi, none of that," Worth protests. "Don't sit up, ya stupid—aw, fuck it, kill yerself if ya want to." He grabs his ophthalmoscope and pulls Hanna's glasses off his face. He shines the light in his eyes and asks, "Do ya know yer name?"

"Hanna Cross," he answers weakly.

"What happened to ya, Cross?" Worth demands, moving to check his other eye. "Nearly gave me a bloody heart attack, bleedin' all over my floor! You seen the state of yer chest?"

"My…" Hanna's voice goes very faint. "I…th-they're…" He trails off, and his hands stop fidgeting in his lap.

"Cross?" Frowning, Worth snaps his fingers in Hanna's face. "Hanna Cross, can you hear me? Fuck."

"What's wrong with him?" Lamont asks.

"Pupils unresponsive," Worth mutters, waving his light in Hanna's eyes again. He picks up the needle he'd used to stitch him up and jabs Hanna in the arm with it. "No response to pain. Shit, I've lost 'im."

"_Lost_ him?" Lamont says, bewildered. "But—"

"Not lost 'im as in _died_, ya moron," Worth snaps. "Lost 'im as in he's gone catatonic." His fingers probe gently across Hanna's scalp, feeling or knots or other injuries. "Ain't got any head trauma. Physically he's fine; his chest'll heal up clean, and it ain't a deep cut or anythin', so that's nothin' to do with it. Most likely some sorta psychological trauma…" He eyes the fine splatter of blood dried to Hana's empty face and grabs another wipe.

"Wouldn't be surprised," he says as he starts to wipe Hanna's face clean. "The blood under his shirt was his. All this on his face an' his arms—I don't think it's his."

There's a pause, and then Lamont exhales slowly. "So he's splattered with somebody else's blood."

"Looks like it."

"What do you think happened?"

"Fuck if I know." Worth sighs and taps ash off the end of his cigarette. He throws the wipe away impatiently and stands up straight. "Aw'right, this is takin' up way too much time. Help me get 'im into a bath. Looks like I gotta keep 'im under observation."

They quickly unhook him from the machines and take out his IV and transfusion drip before taking him and into the bathroom. Worth gets a shower going while Lamont strips Hanna out of his sticky, sodden jeans and underwear. The water slipping down the drain is a gory pink in no time once they situate Hanna under the spray.

"He needs some new clothes," Lamont observes, picking up Hanna's pants and checking the size. "I'll run out and get some while you clean him up."

Worth grunts in acknowledgement, and Lamont takes a moment to scrub his hands clean in the sink before leaving the office. Worth angles the showerhead more pointedly on Hanna's head as he shampoos it thoroughly, scrubbing away all traces of blood. He prods Hanna's eyelids shut even though the kid's in a stupor and wouldn't respond to the burning anyway.

"Ya know yer gonna hafta tell me what'cha got yerself into to wind up here, yeah?" he grumbles. "Comin' in my office lookin' the way ya do…got me all curious now, mate."

He cleans all the blood from Hanna's body, careful around the stitches on his chest, and turns the shower off. He towels him dry and then, with a sigh, sits back on his ankles by the tub and waits for Lamont to come back. He entertains himself by poking Hanna's unresponsive face a few times and wondering if he should charge the kid when he snaps out of it. He doesn't get a lot of children coming in on their own, but it's happened before, and he doesn't make them pay—he's got other patients to take money from. Legally Hanna's an adult, so technically Worth shouldn't feel bad for demanding money, but…well, shit. He doesn't _look_ like an adult, that's for damn sure. And so fucking pathetic, look at him. Scrawny and arse-naked in Worth's dirty bathtub with staples in his chest, _catatonic._

Worth raises his lighter to yet another cigarette, trying to convince himself he's still mulling the issue the over, but he knows he's not gonna take any money from this little bastard. Goddamn it.

A little less than a half hour later, Lamont returns with two sets of jeans, T-shirts, and boxers for Hanna. Hanna is weightless but stiff and uncooperative as Worth lifts him from the tub and they wrestle some clean, dry clothes on him.

"Christ, if this was the appeal of your sister's life-sized Barbie doll when we were kids," Lamont grunts, bending Hanna's leg at the knee and jamming it into the jeans, "then she was as masochistic as you are. Any idea when he'll wake up and move on his own?"

"It shouldn't be _too_ long, but I'm givin' him two days until I send 'im off to the hospital," Worth answers, maneuvering Hanna's arm through a sleeve. "Hear that, Cross? Ya go two days to improve, 'cos I ain't wipin' yer arse like a fuckin' wet nurse. Two days, an' yer out. An' the police'll wanna talk to ya 'bout that shit on yer chest."

Hanna is quiet.

"What are you gonna do with him until then?" Lamont asks, buttoning Hanna's pants and standing back. "You don't keep people under observation. At least, not that I've ever seen."

"I dunno. Fuck it, I got a couch, he can sleep there, I guess."

"That tiny thing that looks like you dredged it up from the bottom of a swamp?"

"Oi, piss off," Worth snaps. "Least it's big enough fer somebody now."

* * *

**I guess this'll be some sort of not-very-long chaptered thing.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Be warned, near the end there's a bit of icky gore. I don't think it's too bad (I'm not very good at writing gore) but it still might be triggery for some people, so...yeah.**

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Worth's apartment is above his office, not that too many people know that, since he's hardly ever upstairs anyway. He even forgets his key in his office and makes Lamont wait with Hanna while he goes back and gets it.

"You should just let him crash in your bed instead of on your couch," Lamont snorts, gently prodding the listless boy into the apartment when the door swings open. "It's the cleaner of the two and I've only ever seen you sleeping at your desk downstairs."

"Like hell he's sleepin' in my bed," Worth says incredulously, switching the lights on and looking around (he briefly wonders how his place managed to be so clean, but then remembers he's never even there, so of course it's clean). "I'm expectin' some nightmares an' bedwettin' with this kid, all that classic PTSD lark. Dunno what he saw, but I'll betcha he'll be seein' it again when he gets to sleep. An' I don't care if I hardly sleep in my bed, I ain't lettin' him piss all over it."

"Right. Save that for the shitty couch."

"You can fuck right off, fatass," Worth says mildly, steering Hanna to the couch and sitting him down on it before striding to his little kitchen and wrenching open the fridge. He peers inside, searching for a soft drink or, God forbid, a fuckin' juice box or something. He finds a can of some off-brand cola thing on the floor of his pantry when he rifles through that, and he hisses it open and sets it down sharply on the coffee table in front of Hanna.

"Drink," he orders. Hanna doesn't respond. "Fer fuck's sake, Cross, ya gotta get yer blood sugar up, now fuckin' _drink._" He snaps his fingers in front of Hanna's face. "I know you can hear me—ya ain't actually catatonic."

"Isn't actually—" Lamont sputters, confused. "How is he not catatonic? Look at him!"

"Christ, go to uni or somethin', ya lousy mobster," Worth growls. "He's got a flat affect—might as well be catatonic." He pushes the drink closer to Hanna, who sits on the couch with his hands folded politely in his lap. "Gotta drink, Cross. Yer in shock. Ya made it this far. Don't be the sorry twat who goes through hell an' back an' then kicks the bucket 'cos he didn't wanna drink a goddamn _Coke._"

"Luce, I gotta run. I've got deliveries to make," Lamont says, pushing back his hair and glancing at his watch. "I'll stop by soon—tomorrow if I can—to see how the two of you are doing."

Worth snorts, because he doesn't need Lamont popping in to check on them, but it's not like he's opposed to the company or anything so he doesn't protest.

"Lock up my office on yer way out. 'M sleepin' here tonight."

Lamont waves his hand vaguely behind him in assent as he exits, leaving Worth standing there in front of Hanna, frowning down at him, waiting. Finally, one of Hanna's hands twitches, and then extends out to shakily take the can.

"Good, we're gettin' somewhere," Worth grunts as Hanna sips his cola. He steps over the coffee table and sits on it, elbows propped on his knees, back hunched so as to get level with Hanna's small physique. He waits for Hanna to restlessly make eye contact with him for half a second before he says firmly, "Now, yer gonna be sleepin' here, aw'right? This couch. Yer gonna stay here till I give ya the OK to clear off. Consider yerself in critical condition an' under observation till I say otherwise, understand?"

Hanna gives a short, twitchy little nod and stares at the coffee table, drinking. Worth wanders the layout of his apartment, trying to remember where he keeps shit, and manages to find a pillow and blanket, which he tosses onto the sofa next to Hanna. He finds a silver bowl and clangs it down on the coffee table before Hanna with instructions that "if ya blow chunks, ya better blow 'em in _here_" and then stands in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, surveying his patient. Finally, he checks his watch, and sees that it's a bit after three in the morning.

"Listen up, Cross," he says sharply, waiting for Hanna's eyes to flicker his way to show he's got his attention. "'M headed to bed. I'll be in that room right there," he points to his bedroom, "if ya need me." He pauses, then adds firmly, "Try not to need me."

Hanna says nothing. Worth nods and goes to turn off the lights. He hears a sharp intake of breath and a faint little "_oh!_" and when he looks back over at Hanna, the boy's sitting ramrod straight with his hands clutching at his hair in quiet terror. Worth flips the light back on; Hanna relaxes mildly, trembling.

"Aw'right," Worth mutters. "Lights stay on." He goes to his bedroom and shuts the door behind him. He stands there for a moment, lips pursed critically as he notes that it's been a while since he's been to his own apartment, but it's been an even longer while since he's actually gone to bed in it. He's used to just passing out at his desk downstairs, using his coat as a pillow, and usually waking up feeling like there's an ice pick lodged in his brain.

It feels weird to kick off his shoes and undress while totally sober, and it also feels weird to sink into a proper mattress and tangle himself in the sheets and use a real pillow, but it feels pretty great so it's no surprise he's out like a light in less than three minutes. He would have fallen asleep sooner than that, even, but he was listening for any sounds from his patient outside the door.

And he would have slept longer, but around six AM comes Hanna's inevitable nightmare. The sound of an ungodly, bloodcurdling scream yanks Worth from the best sleep he's had in God knows when, and he stares at the ceiling stupidly for a moment, chest heaving from the startle the screech had given him, before kicking back the blankets and blindly searching the floor for the pants he'd discarded before going to bed. Once partially dressed, he stumbles out of his room and to the couch, where Hanna lies sobbing in the aftermath of his dream.

Scrubbing a tired hand over his face, Worth snatches the silver bowl and positions it with an almost psychic accuracy next to Hanna, into which he promptly empties his stomach.

Hanna did not make use of the blanket Worth had provided him, which makes it easy for Worth to spy the wet stain beneath him. _Yep, PTSD. Always fun._ When Hanna starts to cry again (Worth is vaguely disturbed by the fact that everything about Hanna from his appearance to his voice is childlike, but these tears are decidedly not) Worth grasps him by the shoulders and eases him into a sitting position.

"Aw'right, aw'right, Cross, settle down," he mutters. "Quit yer cryin', 's just a dream."

"_It's not, it's not!_" Hanna sobs. "It's not, they're—I didn't want to, I had to—it's—they were—_inside them_, I had to do it—I couldn't let them—"

"Cross, _Cross_, fuckin' _breathe_," Worth orders. "'S just a dream. Ya remember where ya are?"

Hanna nods. He sucks in a shuddering breath and draws his hands close to his chest, knotting them in his new shirt, and then collapses back into the sofa. He turns on his side, facing away from Worth, and curls into the fetal position. Worth grips his shoulder and gives it a tug.

"No, sit up. C'mon, ya pissed yerself," he says. "Up, up, Cross, gotta clean yerself up. C'mon, toilet's this way." He manages to urge Hanna into a sitting position and into the bathroom, telling him to shower and get into his second change of clothes. As Hanna starts to shut the door, Worth stops it with his foot, and when Hanna looks up at him, Worth says, "Yer gonna hafta tell me what happened to ya, Cross. I mean it."

Hanna's pupils blow (_Adrenaline_, Worth automatically identifies. _I'll kill him if he doesn't tell me what the fuck happened, I'll lose my goddamn mind_) and his face drains of what little color it had. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows in terror.

"Ain't gotta be right now, relax," Worth mutters. "But it'd better be fuckin' soon, aw'right?"

Hanna just stands there trembling, staring at him, but eventually he nods, ducks his head, and when Worth removes his foot he shuts the door. Worth goes back to the couch and flips the urine-soaked couch cushion over like any self-respecting man would do before rinsing the silver bowl in the kitchen sink and going back to bed. He pulls the sheets up over his head because it's summertime and the sun is already starting to rise and why the fuck don't the blinds on his bedroom window actually fucking _keep the sun out Jesus fuckin' Christ on a bike—_

He wakes up at two in the afternoon wondering why he doesn't sleep in a real bed _all_ the time. Maybe he should get back into the habit of picking up a couple of hookers and crashing at a motel, that was always nice. He lies there for a few minutes, rolling his shoulders and feeling his joints give well-rested pops, before he remembers his patient and gets up.

When he's dressed, he notices a Post-it note stuck to his door. He doesn't recognize the handwriting, but it's even worse than his own chicken scratch scrawl, like it's terrible enough but the hand was shaking when it was written so it's probably Hanna's. He must have slipped inside and left it while Worth was sleeping.

It reads: _1216 Steadman's Grove. _If Worth is meant to understand that, then Hanna is sorely mistaken. He gets that it's an address or some shit, but nothing more. He pockets the Post-it and stomps out. Hanna is curled up in a ball on his sofa, still ignoring the pillow and blanket.

"Awake, Cross?" Hanna's shoulder twitches in response. "Good, sit up." He doesn't. "Don't fuckin' ignore me, sit up. Gotta check yer stitches, ya li'l shit." He jabs Hanna's shoulder blade repeatedly until Hanna finally, slowly, sits up. Worth gets him out of his shirt to take a look at his chest, and he's satisfied with how it looks. It doesn't look _healed_, but it doesn't look bad. No inflammation, no pus, no infections or anything.

Worth sits on his coffee table and surveys the boy through narrowed eyes as Hanna pulls his shirt back over his head, knocking his glasses askew. When he straightens them and reluctantly meets Worth's gaze, Worth says shortly, "Got some questions for ya. I think ya know where it's gonna go." At Hanna's utterly petrified expression, Worth snaps, "None'a that, Cross. Don't you go hidin' in yer own head from me, ya hear? I gotta know what happened to ya. You were in a sorry state last night, the sorriest I've ever seen, an' I've been in this business fer nearly a decade. Yer chest was ripped open like nobody's business; ya got _staples_ in 'em. An' that blood on yer face wasn't yers, was it?"

Pale lips trembling in fright, Hanna minutely shakes his head.

"Is there some bloody horror scene waitin' to be found wherever you came from? Somebody dead? I know ya saw somethin' gruesome, Hanna, an' somethin' happened to ya. Ya gotta tell me what it was."

But Hanna simply shuts his eyes, tears dribbling from the corners, and shakes his head back and forth repeatedly, covering his ears and humming a loud tune Worth doesn't recognize to block his voice out. Worth sighs loudly, "Aw'right, aw'right. Shut up, 'M done askin'. We'll try again some other time." He pulls the Post-it note from his pocket and waves it in Hanna's face.

"Now, what's this, then, eh?" he demands. "Ya left this fer me. What is it?"

Hanna opens his eyes carefully and looks at it. "My parents' house," he answers tremulously. Relief washes over Worth. _Parents, good._ Somebody to take responsibility of the kid.

"C'mon, then, get up," Worth says briskly, standing up. "Don't think I really need to say it, since most people who find me already know the rules, but let's be clear: you don't tell anybody who I am or what I do. Got it? 'M a good Samaritan who let ya stay the night. 'F you talk to the police, my name had _better not come up. _'Zat clear?"

Hanna gives a tiny nod, and Worth ushers him out of the apartment. On the way downstairs, Worth calls Lamont, living MapQuest, to get directions to 1216 Steadman's Grove. He gets Hanna into his clunky piece of shit he has the audacity to call a car and he starts to drive.

It's a fifteen minute trip to Hanna's parents' house once Worth navigates his way out of the hubbub of the city. He doesn't pay mind to how Hanna's tremors graduate into full-blown shakes the closer they get to their destination. When Hanna eventually hunches forward and hides his face between his knees, all Worth says is "Yer gonna get yerself carsick, Cross," which Hanna ignores.

It's a secluded little house in a grove of trees, rather than in a tidy little suburb, which was really what Worth was expecting. He stops the car at the beginning of the gravel driveway and cuts the engine, leaning back in his seat and lighting a smoke. He glances at Hanna and jerks his chin in the direction of the house.

"We're here, Cross, out ya get," he announces. Hanna doesn't budge an inch. "Oi, ya wanted to come here, I brought ya, so go on. You ain't my responsibility anymore."

Hanna's knuckles whiten on his knees and he doesn't remove his head from between them. Worth exhales exasperatedly and says, "Fine, I'll fuckin' bring 'em to ya. _They_ can get you out."

He climbs out of the car and shoves his hands in his pockets, stalking up the driveway to the house. His mind drifts to his arms, and he thinks he should've taken the time to wrap them up, 'cos the Crosses are gonna give him the dirtiest looks even though he's taken mighty good care of their pitiful son if he does say so himself…

He pauses in his trek across the gravel when he notices the splotches of color on the gray pebbles under his feet, leading up the driveway to the house and back down to his car and the main road. Brown, the color of dried blood. Worth's eyes travel back up the house just a few meters ahead, and he takes a long, contemplative drag from his cigarette before approaching. He's barely surprised that there a larger quantity of blood dried to the front porch steps as he trots up them. He glances off to the side of the house and sees a car, but when he listens at the front door, he doesn't hear a sound.

He tosses down his cigarette and grinds it under his heel, steeling himself. He doesn't have weak nerves in the slightest, but hell, he doesn't know what he'll find. The curtains are drawn over the windows, preventing him from peeking in, so he goes ahead and rings the doorbell.

No answer. Not that he fully expected one, but he was hoping. He tries again, then knocks, calling, "Mr. Cross? Mrs. Cross? Got yer son Hanna with me, if yer lookin' for 'im." When that gets no response, Worth sighs and tries the knob. The door isn't locked and swings open with ease.

Worth is far from having a weak stomach, but it's a good thing he's already digested last night's Thai food, because the smell that wafts from inside the house and slams into him like a bulldozer would have sent it leaping up his throat. It certainly makes his eyes water. He gags a little and buries his nose in the crease of his arm. It's a ghastly, sickly sweet smell, like heaps and heaps of rotting meat that's been left in the sun, which is no surprise because the house is warm, heated by the summer air and the sun streaming in through uncovered windows on the other side of the house. The front door leads immediately to a living room, which is empty of any death as far as Worth can see, so he coughs once, tugs his shirt up over his nose and steps inside.

He keeps up a steady stream of profanity as he crosses the living room, aiming for the opening he assumes will lead to a den. He's right; when he reaches the den, he stops in the doorway.

"_Shit fuck what in the holy fucking Jesus Christ goddammit shit shit shit shit SHIT__._"

The walls are decorated with grisly splatters of blood and hunks of rotting flesh. The floor is in an even worse state, with larger chunks of decaying meat and blackish, brownish pools of blood spread over and impossibly large area of what was once a clean white carpet. The ceiling even got in on some of the gory action as well. There was hardly a speck of the den that was not painted in blood.

Two people (Worth infers that they are the Crosses, judging from the red hair they both have, since decomposition has already rendered their facial features unrecognizable) bloated with death and rot lay on the carpet, their chests torn open and their rib cages snapped outwards, splaying the bone open like a spider on its back and its legs thrown in the air.

Worth whirls around and hurries from the house, standing on the front porch and shutting the door behind him, coughing and gasping for clean air, but the stench of the Crosses has sealed itself on the back of his tongue. His stomach makes a break for it, but it's empty, so he just ends up dry heaving stupidly over a hedge by the porch, and when he's done doing that, he looks down the driveway at his car.

Hanna is in the passenger's seat, face buried in his hands, his body wracked with sobs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry this took so long and isn't even ****a good chapter at all. School's been kicking my ass. Thanks for all the positive feedback, though!**

* * *

Hanna is crowded against the passenger door, trying to put as much space between himself and the stench of his parents' death clinging to Worth's skin and clothes. The windows are rolled down and Worth puffs away agitatedly on another cigarette in an attempt to get rid of the smell. His skin is still crawling and he just wants to get home and get rid of these goddamn clothes because they're a lost cause, the stench is never coming out, and he just needs a fuckin' _shower_ and he'll scrub himself _raw_ if it makes it _go the fuck away—_

"'M gonna call the police," Worth mutters at last. "But before I do, 'M gonna call Lamont. 'Member Lamont? He was 'ere last night. Gonna call the police 'cos they gotta know 'bout _that_ back there," he jerks his head vaguely over his shoulder, indicating the house they'd left behind, "an' since the police ain't exactly my cuppa tea, 'M gonna call 'Mont to sorta…supervise 'em. Pays off fer yer best mate to be so _influential_, don't it?" He's only talking to make himself feel less jittery, because it's not like Hanna's being helpful for anything.

"An' before I call the cops," Worth continues, "me an' you are gonna have a li'l chat, yeah? 'Cos you did that." From the corner of his eye he sees Hanna go rigid against the door. "Yeah, I figgered. I ain't _stupid_. You did that. Ya did somethin' and yer parents went—" He makes a vague exploding motion with his hand in front of his chest.

Hanna draws his legs up into the seat and ducks his head between his knees, clutching his hair and making a high keening noise.

"But ya clearly ain't some psychopath," Worth scoffs, ignoring the weird sounds Hanna's making, "gettin' yer jollies from blowin' yer family's guts out. Ya said ya had to—somethin' inside 'em, ya said?"

Hanna's head snaps up to stare at him. "You—y-you believe me?"

"I don't believe yer mad enough to kill yer mum an' dad fer shits an' giggles," Worth says. "But I can believe ya got desperate enough to do it." He flicks his cig out the open window and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "An' normally I'd boot ya outta my car an' tell ya to sort this shit out yerself an' wish ya the best'a luck. _But_," he steers with his knee as he lights another smoke, "I saw yer parents' chests. I saw _yer_ chest. An' yer still my patient, an' I'd be lyin' if I said I ain't curious. So we're goin' home an' yer gonna tell me everythin'."

He cuts a sharp look at Hanna, who's staring at him in shock.

"_Everythin'._ Aw'right? We clear?"

Hanna nods and ducks his head back in between his knees. The ride home is silent after that.

Back at his apartment, Worth nudges Hanna to the couch and tells him not to go anywhere, and gets in the shower. Worth has gotten into the bad habit of going a few days between showers since he dropped out of med school, but this time he's back under the spray just two days after last time. The water is scalding hot, which makes his lips twitch up in an indulgent smile, but he tries not to focus on the burn because—fuck, he hadn't even thought about how his wank schedule would fare with having a kid in his apartment, _shit_. Well, if Hanna's uncomfortable with any noises he hears then he can up and leave any time he damn well pleases; fuck it, Worth's not holding him hostage.

Worth scrubs and scrubs and scrubs at his skin until his skin is pink with the heat of the water and friction from the washing, and he lathers viciously at his hair but _fuck_ the smell is still there. The odor of death is like a skunk's spray, embedded in his skin no matter how desperately he tries to wash it away and shit, Worth hasn't got any fuckin' tomato sauce or whatever the fuck you're supposed to use when you have that kind of problem, and even if he did, he would never submerge himself in that shit—he does have his dignity intact.

He gives up when the smell is just a faint, lingering stench that nobody would detect unless they've got their face mashed up against him, and since that isn't happening right now then it isn't an issue. He pulls on some fresh clothes and dumps his old ones out his bedroom window into the big bin tucked in the corner of the alley below his apartment.

Hanna is still sitting where Worth had deposited him on the sofa when Worth grabs the phone and calls Lamont. He drops down onto the couch beside the kid and doesn't say anything when Hanna flinches slightly, choosing instead to focus on Lamont when he picks up.

"Hanna's talkin'," Worth says by way of _hello_. "Get over here, 'cos he's gonna tell me what happened to 'im, an' I want ya to hear it too."

"Uh, okay," Lamont says, and Worth hears him shuffling some papers and kicking empty boxes around on the other end of the line. "Why, exactly…?"

"Heh," Worth chuckles, fiddling with his lighter but not reaching for his cigarettes. "'Cos I got a biggie of a favor to ask ya, an' I think you'll be more inclined to do it once we hear Hanna's story."

"Oh, Christ," Lamont sighs. "Right, well—okay, gimme ten minutes and I'll be there. How's the kid doing?"

"I said he's talkin', an' that's pretty much the only improvement, but his affect ain't flat so that's somethin'. Ten minutes, yeah?"

"Yeah, see you."

Worth tosses the phone away carelessly and fixes his gaze on the side of Hanna's face. He can tell by the way Hanna's hands fidget that he knows he's under scrutiny.

"Yer still with me, ain'tcha, Cross?" Worth says. "Yer not gonna disappear into that li'l hidey-hole in yer head when Lamont gets here, right?"

Hanna's head twitches slightly, and he mumbles, "No. I'm gonna tell you. Promise." Worth grunts, satisfied, and he thinks that's it, but Hanna surprises him by speaking up again, shakily. "How is your friend gonna help? W-with the police, I mean, you said—I-I-I know what you saw was bad—_really_ bad, but I—it's not—am I gonna go to jail?"

"Depends on what ya tell the police," Worth says, finally lighting another smoke. "Don't go lyin', now, Cross, I ain't sayin' that—I love bullshittin' 'round with lotsa people, but if things ain't lookin' too good fer ya, don't bullshit with the cops."

"I won't," Hanna says in a tiny voice.

"Good. When 'Mont gets here, you just tell us what the fuck happened an' we'll take care'a how ya deal with the cops when we call 'em." He successfully blows a trail of smoke rings and checks his watch. "Main reason I want Lamont involved is 'cos he's…well, he's good with underground business, so to speak, an' you'd be surprised how much of the city 'Mont's people've got wrapped 'round their greasy fingers, heh. An' given my less-than-legal career choice an' yer less-than-innocent-lookin' situation, we could use a bit of that greasy influence on the cops, yeah?"

"So," Hanna says timorously, "he's just gonna—m-make sure they don't pry too hard?"

"Obviously that mess in yer house has gotta get cleaned up, an' even though they pro'lly can't prove ya did anythin', you'd still be the number-one suspect. 'Mont'll jus' make sure this gets taken care of quickly an' they leave us the fuck alone."

For some reason, this makes Hanna's face crumple, and he covers his face with trembling fingers and hunches over, beginning to cry. Worth glances around his apartment awkwardly for a moment before getting up and going into the kitchen. He glances at his fridge and knows he has no appetite, not after what he's seen today, but wonders about Hanna.

"Oi, Cross," he calls, "quit with the waterworks an' tell me when was the last tima ya ate?"

"I'm not hungry," Hanna says tearfully, voice cracking, but it sounds like he's already trying to get a grip on himself, which Worth appreciates.

"Don't care if ya ain't got an appetite," Worth says shortly, "but are ya forgettin' you ain't had anythin' in yer system 'cept fer a fizzy drink since ya bled out all over my examination table? Ain't gonna settle fer you passin' out like a fairy princess at the cops' feet."

Worth hears Hanna mumble, almost inaudibly, but he catches something like "don't think I can stomach much of anything." Worth goes to the pantry and finds a packet of stale saltines. He returns to Hanna and drops them in his lap.

"Eat," he orders, and waits, because he suspects if he walks always Hanna will just set them aside. He glares at the boy, and Hanna swallows nervously before tearing open the packet with trembling hands. When he eats one, his eyes widen a bit, and then he starts eating a few more in earnest. Clearly he hasn't eaten in a while.

Worth checks his watch again, impatient. Eventually, he flips on the television, only for the noise—he can't remember the last time he turned to television for entertainment instead of a needle or razor blade. Worth mills about in the kitchen, pacing and waiting for Lamont to arrive, glancing at Hanna every once in a while. TV seems to have distracted him a bit, thankfully.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he hears Lamont rap on the door (which is a bit ridiculous, since he knows Hanna's going to tell them something really fucked up and he won't be so relieved when he hears it) and he goes to let him in. The noise from the TV confuses Lamont.

"The hell is that?"

"Gay Pride Parade in my living room. The fuck d'you think it is?" Worth says testily, hooking a thumb in the direction of Hanna watching television.

"Since when do you watch TV?" Lamont chuckles, peering at Hanna from across the room.

"I ain't watchin' it, I put it on 'cos it might keep 'im from cryin' fer a while. Oi, Cross, turn off the telly. 'Mont's here."

As Hanna moves to turn it off, Lamont says mildly, "You've been in this country for nearly thirty years, Luce; you gotta start calling that shit 'TV'."

"Fuck off."

The TV dies, and Hanna slinks timidly back to the sofa. Lamont stands with his hands jammed in his pockets and surveys his surroundings before sighing and saying, "All right. Obviously you want something big from me, because you could've gotten Hanna's story already and then just relayed it to me."

"His parents are dead," Worth says abruptly.

Lamont blinks, then inclines his head towards Hanna. "Sorry, kid." He looks back at Worth and asks, "What happened?"

"'S what he's gonna tell us," Worth shrugs. "All I know's that he gave me 'is home address this morning, an' I drove 'im there. Parents were in the house, chests blown open all over the fuckin' place. Couldn't've been dead fer more'n two days, but y'know what the heat'll do to a corpse—"

"Okay, I get it," Lamont says, looking faintly revolted and glancing at Hanna. Hanna's got his ears covered, humming quietly to himself.

"He did it," Worth says in a low voice. "I dunno how, but he says he did it. Says he had to. Somethin' was inside 'em."

"What—you expect me to believe that _he_," Lamont jabs an incredulous finger in Hanna's direction, "some kid weighing in at sixty pounds soaking wet, _murdered_ his parents?"

"It wasn't murder!" Hanna wails suddenly. "I didn't—it wasn't—I swear to God, it was the only thing I could do, I-I-I _saved_ them!"

"Settle down, Cross, we ain't accusin' you of anythin'," Worth mutters. He meets Lamont's "what the fuck" gaze with his own that says "yeah, I don't know." He looks at Hanna and sticks a cigarette between his lips. "Aw'right, love," he says languidly, "I believe yer due fer a little storytellin'."

Hanna pales a bit, and his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. "O-okay, um. Uh, first, uh—d-do either of you, um…believe in magic?"

There's a moment of silence, in which Worth and Lamont glance at each other, bewildered.

"What the fuck're you goin' on about?" says Worth.

"I-I swear it's relevant," Hanna whimpers. "S-so I'm guessing you don't, right? Okay. Okay…" He exhales slowly and pulls a Sharpie from his pocket. "I-I'm gonna show you something, okay? Don't freak out."

Before Worth can open his mouth to ask what the fuck Hanna is talking about, the boy scrawls something on the palm of his hand with the marker, and suddenly the air in Worth's apartment feels heavy and electric on his skin, like the prickle of static. His hair stands on end, and he sees the symbol on Hanna's hand glowing a dull red.

"The _fuck_—"

Hanna's thrusts his glowing palm at the television, and a stream of red light spews from the marking on Hanna's hand. The light hits the TV and with a high-pitched whine, the screen cracks, sparks fly, and there's a loud popping noise as his television crumples in on itself.

"_Oi!_" Worth can either choose to flip his shit because Hanna just used something that looks a lot like magic, or he can choose to be upset because Hanna just destroyed his property, and right now, the latter seems easier to deal with, so he goes with that. "I hope fer yer sake ya got the cash to get me a new telly, ya li'l fuckin' vandal!"

"I-I can fix it!"

"What the _fuck_ is going on!" Lamont cries, still staring at the destroyed television as Worth scrubs a disbelieving hand over his face and Hanna clumsily writes another symbol on his other hand.

"Think 'm goin' nuts, Monty, pretty sure that's what's goin' on," Worth says tiredly through his fingers. He watches Hanna aim his hand at the TV again; this time, pale blue light jets from his palm, and the damage done to the TV seems to rewind like a film until it's completely unharmed. "Huh. Lookit that, 'Mont, the kid's the fuckin' Wizard of Oz."

"Can I go home?" Lamont says, looking either disturbed or just disgruntled, Worth can't tell.

"No. Cross, I'm _assumin' _this has somethin' to do with what ya did to yer parents, so quit breakin' my shit and get to the point," Worth says firmly.

Hanna's lips tremble as he pops the lid back on his marker and returns it to the pocket of his jeans. "Y-yeah. I-I just wanted to show you th-that magic is real a-a-and it's…involved in…i-in what happened. What I did." His eyes glisten with tears. Worth is used to that by now, but Lamont shifts uncomfortably beside him.

"So now that you've seen, uh, that, i-it wouldn't surprise you if I said ghosts were real, too, w-would it?"

Worth chain smokes throughout Hanna's story, rapt, while Lamont's unfortunate (and completely stupid) nervous tic of laughter bubbles up out of him every so often, no matter how severely Worth's ice pick elbow digs into his ribs. Hanna's voice is shaky, wavering and tearful at the beginning, but as he goes on, his fidgeting stops and his voice is quiet and monotonous, detached. Worth will worry about that later; for now, he listens.

Hanna's parents had not died two days ago. They died two years ago, when he was seventeen. Nothing suspicious about it—just your garden variety fatal car crash. But Mr. and Mrs. Cross had just left home after getting into a bit of a quarrel with their son—the typical sort of fight a teenager has with his parents all the time, usually involving the phrase "I'm an adult, I can make my own decisions" and shit like that.

"Normally when a person dies and becomes a ghost," Hanna intones dully, "it's because they were feeling something really strongly the moment they died. Which is why most ghosts are either stuck being all depressed or really, really aggressive. They're usually stuck in that feeling when they're ghosts, rarely any variation. B-but," his breath hitches—just once, but enough to soothe Worth's suspicions that he's gonna slip back into catatonia midsentence, "the thing with ghosts is that they're…they really, _really_ amplify whatever you were feeling when you died."

Hanna's parents must have still been seething from the argument when their car was broadsided, and probably feeling that everything they did was because they just wanted to be good parents. Worth had experience with stupidly overbearing parents, so it wasn't too difficult for him to imagine the nightmare that was angry parents + overbearing parents + death + ghosts = clusterfuck.

Hanna went to stay with his grandmother after his parents' death, which went fine for about two days until the ghosts of his parents showed up and fucked him over. Half of what Hanna says goes in one of the Worth's ears and out the other, but he gets the gist of things:

Dead parents. Dead parents' ghosts show up at Granny's place. R.I.P. Granny, followed by a year or two of terrorizing Hanna and calling it _parenting from beyond the grave_. Hanna couldn't run; he had nowhere else to go, and no police officer would listen to him if he tried to get help. And then, more recently, changes started to happen.

"You know what happens to a ghost when it's left to linger after a while?" Hanna asks quietly. "It stops being a ghost. Gets an upgrade. Becomes a demon. And demons are more like humans than they are ghosts. They're…fleshy. That's what you saw at my house."

"An' how does this lead to that mess I saw, huh?" Worth asks around his umpteenth cigarette.

"They'd let me out of the house," Hanna explains, "to go to school and buy groceries and stuff. When they were still all ghostly and wispy and could hide from other people, they'd follow me. Y'know, to make sure I wouldn't run. And when they started getting…substantial," he lets out a shaky breath, "they didn't need to supervise me anymore. I'd leave and then come back home. I didn't try to run. But there was this guy I'd see. This homeless guy that slept outside a Laundromat. He'd always ask me to buy booze for him, and I'd say no, because my parents would be waiting for me. But then one day he said, 'Hey kid, buy me some whiskey and I'll teach you a magic trick,' and I don't know why, but I was curious, so I got him some whiskey, and he showed me that." He points at the television he'd just destroyed and then repaired.

And a new routine had begun. Terror at home, escape at school, and some form of entertainment on outings. Hanna continued to buy booze for the homeless guy, and for each purchase he offered, Hanna received what he called runes in return. Eventually, Hanna got brave, and started to ask what kinds of banishing runes the guy had. Turns out, only some of the strongest could get rid of a demon.

After months and months of buying booze, grilling the homeless man for runes, learning to combine more than one rune to create something new or take away certain aspects of a spell, and mentally steeling himself for what he was going to do, Hanna had constructed a way to get rid of the demons that had once been his family. It required magic, blood, and flesh, and would have killed Hanna if not done just right, and probably would have killed him anyway just for all the health hazards it made.

The homeless man helped Hanna in cutting open his chest and painting the rune he'd helped Hanna devise onto the exposed muscle beneath, using too many runes to really be healthy so as to retain consciousness, reduce bleeding, and minimize pain. More runes had been drawn on the palms of Hanna's hands, and his chest had been haphazardly stapled back together, and Hanna had returned home to finish it all. Pressing his rune-covered hands to his maimed chest had forced the demons out of the bodies they'd grown around themselves—forced them right out of their chests.

Something hot burst deep in Hanna's chest, directly below the rune painted onto his muscle, then came very cold, and despite the rune designed to hold off bleeding, blood started to seep from his wound.

"He knew you," Hanna says to Worth. "The homeless guy knew who you were and what you did. I think he knew something would happen to me after I did it. When I came out of the house after—after it was done, he was waiting in a car he'd taken, so he could drop me off at your alley, and then sped away. A-and that's what happened. That's everything."

"_That_," Worth exhales, exchanging completely disbelieving glances with Lamont at the conclusion of Hanna's choppily-told story, "was the most ridiculous fuckin' thing I've ever heard in my entire fuckin' life, Cross."

"You don't believe me?" Hanna squeaks, going very pale and looking just about ready to faint.

"I believe ya, but that's one fucked up story ya got. Goddamn."

"Ooookay then," Lamont says at length. "I've, haha—um, sorry, it's not funny, heh, but uh. Yeah, okay, I've heard Hanna's story, since apparently I absolutely _had_ to." He sends Worth a look that says he could have happily gone his entire life without hearing about Hanna's fucked-up life. "So, _Luce._ How can I be of service to you _this_ time?"

Worth grins cockily right back into Lamont's sarcastic face. "Ya know yer my favorite terrifyin' hitman, don'tcha?"

"I'm not a hitman," Lamont says, unamused, but he cuts a sharp look at Hanna from the corner of his eye. "Watch your words, Luce. I'm serious."

"You don't scare me, ya fuckin' wanker. Anyway, I don't need nothin' _too_ serious," Luce drawls. "But I need to call the police 'bout the Crosses rottin' away back there. They'll wanna question me, an' they'll definitely wanna question Hanna."

"And you want me to take care of that for you." Lamont is decidedly unimpressed. "What makes you so sure, exactly, that I have that sort of influence over the police?"

"'Cos big cities like this're full'a corruption, and you lot _are_ the corruption, an' I love ya for it," Worth snickers.

"You know, Luce, it'd do you some good to get arrested," Lamont says exasperatedly.

"Oi, I've been arrested before!"

"Yeah, I know, I was arrested _with_ you," Lamont snorts. "Smoking pot and stealing cars when we were under eighteen doesn't count. You've graduated to bigger and better things. Exhibit A, downstairs. Exhibit B, those lovely track marks on your arm."

"Have I told ya to fuck off yet?" Worth says tetchily. "I think I have. Look, I ain't got the patience to be arrested, but our main concern in this li'l wizard right 'ere." He jabs a bony finger at Hanna. "I doubt they'd get enough solid evidence to really pin 'im down as a murderer, but he'd definitely be the main suspect. How long d'ya think he'd last in prison? Gimme yer best guess."

Worth knows he's won, because he usually does win at these things (though he'd be lying if he said it was always because he made a fair point like right now; usually he won because whatever he wanted to do that called for convincing Lamont, Lamont wanted to do anyway, and this is one of the reasons he's his best mate), but Lamont stubbornly holds his gaze for ten whole seconds before closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and sighing, "I need to make a few phone calls."


	4. Chapter 4

Worth parks at the foot of the Crosses' driveway for the second time that day and leans back in his seat, surveying the house. He takes a long drag on his cigarette before tilting his head toward Lamont in the passenger seat and asking, "You eat at all today?"

"Yeah, why?"

"No reason." He gets out of the car, and Lamont follows suit. Worth raps his knuckles on the window to the backseat, startling Hanna. "C'mon, Cross, out ya get." At Hanna's panicked expression, he says, "Fer fuck's sake, Hanna, I ain't makin' ya go _inside_. Jesus. But ya gotta get outta the car. Come on." He opens the door. Hanna stares up at him fearfully for a few moments before swallowing, nodding his head feebly, and timidly exiting the car.

Worth leans against the hood of the car with Hanna at his side as they watch Lamont go up the porch steps, treading carefully and watching his step around the blood.

"What's he doing?" Hanna asks nervously as Lamont examines the dried mess on the welcome mat. "Is he gonna, like, tamper with—with evidence a-and stuff? Is that—"

"Relax," Worth drawls. "He ain't gonna fuck with any evidence."

"For fuck's sake, Luce!" Lamont calls irritably from the porch, stooping to pick up Worth's crushed cigarette from the first trip to the crime scene. He waves it at Worth. "They'd've had some questions for you if they found this."

Worth laughs and gives him a thumbs-up. To Hanna, he continues, "'Mont's just gonna take a look 'round the place so he can tell ya what _not_ to tell the cops."

"B-but I thought you said not to lie to them!"

"Not tellin' 'em somethin' ain't the same thing as lyin', Cross, you know that," Worth scoffs. "Everyone knows that. Ya learn that when yer a kid an ya don't wanna get yer arse kicked by yer parents."

The sound of coughing draws his attention back to the front porch. Lamont has opened the front door and recoiled from the stench inside. He gags into the crook of his elbow.

"Jesus Christ," Lamont coughs. Worth grins at the sight of him facing the yard, eyes cast skyward and his hands on his hips as he takes deep, nauseated breaths. "That's fucking disgusting, thanks for the warning."

"Wot? Ya knew there'd be two dead people in there, what'd ya expect? Roses?"

"I'm gonna throw up," Lamont says plaintively, and Worth cackles. Beside him, Hanna makes a distressed noise.

"Yer aw'right," Worth assures him languidly, clapping him on the back as Lamont ducks into the house. "That ain't really yer mum an' dad ya killed in there, jus' keep that in mind." And he squeezes the back of Hanna's neck lightly and stuffs his hands in his pocket. That's about as much real comfort he's comfortable offering.

After a moment, Hanna mutters in a troubled tone, "They're gonna ID the bodies as m-my parents, and…and that's gonna be awkward, since their death certificates were issued two years ago. And, w-well, y'know, they've been buried and…stuff."

Worth doesn't respond. "Awkward" isn't exactly the word he'd use.

A few minutes later, Lamont emerges from the house, obviously thankful to be back in the fresh air.

"That was the worst fucking thing I've ever seen in my entire life," Lamont says irritably, approaching Worth and Hanna and smelling of the dead Crosses inside. "And I've seen some fucked up crime scenes. But," he turns to Hanna, expression smoothing out a bit, "you're gonna be fine, kid."

"I am?" Hanna says weakly.

"What happened in there was, essentially, that they exploded," Lamont says. "Right? You did that, uh, magic…thing, cut your chest open, drew those things on yourself, and that made the—heheh, um—_demons_ burst out of them, right?" Hanna nods. "As far as the police are gonna be able to tell, there was no weapon. There's literally nothing in there that could prove you're the one who did that to them. But it won't even matter, because even if I wasn't going to keep an eye on the resulting investigation, _this_ is going to be completely covered up."

"They're gonna cover it up?" Hanna says incredulously.

"If they weren't, I'd have made sure they would, kid," Lamont says with an easy grin. "But they will, I'm sure of it. _Completely_ unexplainable deaths, not to mention the fact that they'll discover Mr. and Mrs. Cross died two years ago."

Worth elbows Hanna triumphantly.

"Were your parents buried?" Lamont asks. Hanna nods. "They'll exume the bodies and run some tests, and they'll either find that the bodies in your house right now aren't technically human, or they'll find that they're the same people in your parents' coffins. And both of those discoveries will be hushed up. The only reason I'm bothering to supervise this whole thing is to keep them from prying at you too hard." He smirks at Worth. "Luce doesn't want the big bad coppers breaking his poor patient in half."

"Fuck off, gimme yer phone," Worth snaps, reaching into Lamont's pocket and pulling out his cell phone, ready to dial 911.

"Wait!" Hanna cries. "But—what—wh-what am I gonna tell them? They're gonna interrogate me, I can't say I wasn't there when it happened, what do I say?"

"The truth," Lamont says simply. "Just, you know…minus the magic part. You tell them the truth about how your parents died. Two years ago, in a car crash."

"And then they came back as ghosts."

"Don't tell them they came back as ghosts," Lamont says firmly. "They came back. You were living with your grandmother and they came back, and you don't know how or why. And if they ask you why you didn't tell anyone, you tell them you tried, but no one believed you. That much is true, isn't it?"

"But what do I say when they ask me what happened last night?" Hanna asks desperately.

"You say you don't know. That's your safest answer. How did your parents come back? You don't know. How did your parents die this time? You don't know. What happened to your chest? You don't know. Did you blow them up? _No._ You are just as baffled as they are, understand? Also, it's best you don't mention Luce's little set-up downstairs. Let's just say you don't remember much after what happened in your house, and you woke up in Luce's apartment. He's a good Samaritan who found you staggering along the streets and took you, all right?"

"Is that _really_ gonna work?" Hanna asks.

"'Course it will," Worth scoffs. "With 'Mont lookin' over their shoulders the whole fuckin' time, they won't push it. At least, not if they value their jobs or their kneecaps…"

"It'll work, Hanna," Lamont says. "I promise." He holds his hand out to Worth, beckoning for his phone. "I'll make the call."

Worth tosses him the phone and goes around to the passenger side door. As Lamont dials 911, Worth slips inside his car and rummages through the glove compartment until he finds his roll of bandages and sets about wrapping his arms. If he has to accompany Hanna into the police station, he's sure as shit not doing it with his track marks on display for every cop and his brother to see.

He's just taping down the last of the gauze on one arm and preparing to wrap the other one when Hanna shuffles over. Worth glances up at him briefly before going back to his bandaging. He waits a few seconds for Hanna to speak, but when all Hanna does is fidget uncomfortably, Worth says, "Spit it out, Cross, I ain't got all day."

"Well, I just—I mean," Hanna stutters awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I-I-I…I know what you…you know, _do_, I mean. In the alley, you're a, um, doctor, sort of. Eddie told me—th-the homeless guy, I mean, that's him, that's Eddie—he told me what you do before he dropped me off outside the alley."

"Yer point?"

"I don't…I-I don't have any money, is my point," Hanna says miserably.

"Don't recall askin' ya fer any," Worth says, fastening his bandages and bending his arms at the elbows experimentally.

"But—"

"Cross, if I thought you had any money to yer name, I woulda made ya pay up before ya collapsed at my feet last night, aw'right?" Worth says shortly. "'S on the house. End of story. Relax."

"I doubt your other patients brought the police down on your head, though," Hanna says guiltily.

"Yeah, well, maybe I just got a thing fer redheads." At Hanna's alarmed expression, Worth says, "Fer fuck's sake, I'm _joking_. Jesus Christ. Y'know what, go ride Lamont's ass till the cops get here. Piss off." He motions for Hanna to go away.

Worth lights up another cigarette when he hears the distant wail of sirens. He checks his watch and prepares for a very, very long evening.

Hanna looks remarkably tiny inside the barren interrogation room and it is quite a pitiful sight. He's fidgety and shaky after the police officer's gentle but probing questions, but to Worth's satisfaction, Hanna has stuck to Lamont's instructions, admitting to nothing incriminating and mentioning nothing of magic or ghosts or demons, but otherwise staying honest.

"Oi," Worth barks impatiently on the other side of the observation window when an officer enters. "We finished yet?"

"Hanna is," the officer says mildly. "But I'd like to ask you a few questions. This way, please." He opens the door to Hanna's interrogation room, making Hanna jump. "All right, Mr. Cross, you're free to go."

Hanna's face collapses with relief, but fills with confusion when Worth steps inside.

"'S my turn," Worth says sardonically. "Lamont's somewhere in the buildin'. He'll take care'a ya if this takes long." He shoos Hanna out of the room. Worth isn't worried, but Hanna obviously is.

The door clicks shut, and the officer smiles blandly at Worth. "Have a seat."

Worth spins the chair around and sits in it, straddling the back. It's a little small; too big for Hanna's tiny frame, and too tiny for Worth's monstrously tall one. He hopes this won't take long. It's bad for his back.

"So," says the officer, taking the seat opposite him. "Luce Worth. Today is just full of interesting names."

Worth drums his fingers on the tabletop.

The officer looks bac down at the manila folder in front of him. "How long have you been in this country, Mr. Worth?"

"It don't say in that file?" Worth jerks his chin at the old photograph of himself clipped to the papers.

The officer smiles tightly. "Just trying to make conversation."

"'Zat why I'm in here?" Worth asks. "Buy me a drink if it's conversation yer after, love."

"All right," the police officer agrees briskly, "let's cut through the bullshit. How long have you known Hanna Cross?"

"Met 'im last night."

"How did you meet him?"

Worth lets out a long, drawn-out sigh, preparing to lie. "Saw 'im stumblin' 'round late last night. Looked like death. He was goin' into shock so I brought him into my flat and fixed him up."

"Yes, I see you went to Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons," says the officer, flipping to the second page of Worth's file. "_And_ you were one of the top ten students in your class. Impressive. Why'd you drop out?"

Worth grins. "Do I really look like I belong in med school?"

The officer's eyes trail from Worth's smoke-stained teeth down to his loosely wrapped arms. Politely, he says, "It takes all kinds." He nods at the bandages. "Got something to hide, Mr. Worth?"

"Nope."

"Really," the officer says flatly, unimpressed. He motions for Worth to expose his arms.

"I could be a burn victim!" Worth protests theatrically, feigning offense.

"I'll pull up your recent medical history," the officer says easily.

Worth wags his finger with a sneer. "Oh, you nosy bastard." But he unwraps his wrists, the fluorescent lights washing out his sallow skin and throwing his plentiful scars into sharp definition. He reveals more of his arms and more of his scars, stopping just before where his track marks begin.

"I'm a tortured soul," he tells the police officer.

"I can see that," says the officer, pursing his lips. "Wrap them up." As Worth complies, he asks, "Did you know something bad had happened to Hanna when you took him in?"

"I knew he'd seen somethin' fucked up fit to send him into shock," Worth shrugs. "Didn't much care what it was, jus' wanted to keep 'im from dyin'. Shock'll kill ya, mate. He wasn't talkin' much, anyway."

The officer leans forward, elbows on the table. "And what brought you to the scene of the crime?"

"Hanna did. Wrote down his address. Didn't say nothin' 'bout what was gonna be there. Took Lamont out there with me, an' when we saw the bodies, he called the police."

"And Hanna," says the officer, "was Hanna acting suspiciously?"

"He was actin' like a kid whose mum an' dad flew to bits in front'a his fuckin' face, that's how he was actin'," Worth says sharply. "An' considerin' he _knows_ you lot think he had somethin' to do with it—"

"We're not saying that, Mr. Worth—"

"—I think he's actin' fuckin' _great._"

The officer stares at him critically for a long few seconds with Worth meeting his gaze levelly until another police officer opens the door.

"He's done, Crane," she says firmly, looking nervous and distracted. "Let him go."

"But—"

"I said he's done," she snaps. "You can go, Mr. Worth."

Smirking at Officer Crane, Worth rises from his too-small seat. "It's been a pleasure workin' with ya, officer," he says smarmily.

"We'll just need to get Mr. Cross's new place of residence," Officer Crane mutters, gathering Worth's file into his folder, "in the event we need to contact him again."

"He'll be with me," Worth tosses over his shoulder on his way to the door.

"You're going to let a nineteen-year-old basket case you met _yesterday_ live with you?" Officer Crane says dubiously.

"Well, if ya _want_ 'im on the streets—"

"It's just," interrupts Crane, "you don't exactly seem like the hospitable type, Mr. Worth."

"Heh." Worth plucks a cigarette from his pack, nearly empty, and lights it front of the officer. "Takes all kinds, don't it?" And he waltzes from the interrogation room and into the bustling lobby of the station where Hanna sits nervously in a chair and Lamont shakes hands with the anxious-looking police officer who ordered Crane to let Worth go. Hanna springs to his feet when he sees him.

"Yer in the clear, Cross." He grips Hanna tight around the back of his neck and steers him towards the exit, feeling ready to jump out of his skin in this environment. He nearly shouts for Lamont to come along, but already he feels him shadowing them on the steps leading out of the police station.

"I-I-I think I'm gonna pass out, Doc," Hanna says queasily. Worth sits him on the curb and shoves Hanna's head between his knobby knees. He can't bring himself to be annoyed.

* * *

**Hey guys, I'm really sorry for the big gap between chapters! It shouldn't happen again.**


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